


There's Blood On Our Hands

by nonsolumsedetiam



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Detective Sam, F/M, M/M, Police Officer Sam, Serial Killer Castiel, Serial Killer Dean, lots of characters actually, t'would be a pain to name them all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-06 23:39:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonsolumsedetiam/pseuds/nonsolumsedetiam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years ago, serial killer Dean Smith was placed behind bars. Five years later, a woman is dead and Detective Sam Wesson recognizes the scene all too well. The nightmare is back, and Sam must make his way down a path he does not want to walk and uncover stories best kept by the dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this back in September. It was inspired by the episode "The Thin White Line" from the 90's show Millennium. But then it became it's own sort of monster. Oh well.
> 
> Updates seem to be a once-a-month kind of deal.

I

_Little bird,_

_Who sings at dawn,_

_Sings a song for me._

* * *

He was a problem child from the moment of conception, a storm that might have been averted had life granted him the warmth of family. But that was not to be.

He was a seeping poison, a quick knife, a horrifying reminder that Death held teaspoon's worth more mercy than Life. He should have died a long time ago, but Life kept snatching him away to whisper, _Wait a little longer._

The first judge had taken pity on his tortured and broken background, sentencing him to life in prison. It was not a punishment. He hunted shadows until, one day, a beautiful shadow followed him. Shadow by his side, he loped the halls and corridors with ease, a toothy white grin dancing across his handsome face.

With that same ease he slaughtered three prison guards and four other inmates before they were able to subdue him. The second judge sealed his place in Death Row. Destination: certain. Time seeped out of his grasp like sand through a careless fist. It wasn't like he gave a fuck anyway.

His angel had flown away.

* * *

It starts again.

The victim is a woman in her late twenties. Her hair, long and blonde, spills prettily around her, framing her face in a halo of gold. Her hands were laid carefully across her chest; neat and clutching a folded note. It's almost sweet. But there are bruises around her neck from where she was strangled. There's blood staining her shirt, seeping from where the kitchen knife was left protruding from her abdomen. Her eyes are open and unseeing, the blue glazed milky by death. Lastly, there's a set of wings painted in blood on the floor.

"Sam."

The coroner passes the note, crumpled from wrenching it out of her grasp.

"Thanks, Andy."

"Cause of death was strangulation. The knife was done shortly after, though."

Sam casts his gaze back down to the note in his gloved hands. With a growing sense of dread, Sam Wesson opens it and gazes down at the neatly written words.

 

_Dearheart,_

_Please be proud. I'm keeping our promise._

_I miss you so much. Do you miss me too?_

 

 _Five years. Five years and it's back._ The letter shakes in his grasp. _Oh God, how could this be?_

"Sam? Sam! Don't blank out on me, man. Come on."

Fingers snap in front of Sam's face. Sam pushes the hand away,

"God damn it, Ash. I'm fine."

A raised brow. Skepticism. Concern. A hint of exasperation in his partner's green eyes.

"Mind letting me in on those thoughts?"

Sam shrugs noncommittally. Ash sighs, shaking his head and fiddling with his watch. They'd been partners for three years now, and sometimes you just had to let Wesson keep his thoughts until he was ready to share with the class.

They're putting a white sheet over the body now.

She was Rachel Engel. 28. Single. Airline Stewardess. Someone else was notifying her brother and her sister of what had happened.

Someone else.

Despite the almost ritualistic layout of the murder, there was nothing personal about it. Rachel could have been alive right at this very moment if only she hadn't answered the door. Someone else could be dead.

* * *

_Five years ago_

Sam froze in his tracks. He took in the horror of the scene before his eyes. There's blood spattering on the wall; some of it was arterial spray from the attack, most was placed there after the fact. The girl's body, identified by the neighbor who found her as Cassie Robinson, was face-up on the wood floor of her living room. Her shirt rested on her chest in tatters; the knife that killed her ripped it to shreds as the killer stabbed her again and again. Her face was covered by a folded sheet of paper. It was a mockery. He wanted to make sure her eyes were closed. He wanted to cover her body with a white sheet. He wanted to give her death some small ounce of dignity. He wanted there to be at least some façade of peace in death. Instead, he stood guard, waiting for forensic to fucking get there already.

It was a long night. The mother came, confused and lost, not comprehending why there were police at her daughter's house. They didn't let her see the body. They couldn't.

At the station, Captain Singer briefed them on the case at hand. They had a serial killer. He named the officers that were going to be working on the case to catch their man. Sam was not surprised to hear his name called out. Singer had the note projected on the screen as he spoke.

"We're getting in contact with the FBI so we can get some direction on this thing. This is a good department. We're going to be working day and night at catching this guy. Go home. I want you all to come back in the morning with fresh minds." Singer shut off the projector, signaling their dismissal.

The officers made their way out, but Sam stayed behind. He stared blankly at the screen, phantom words flickering before his eyes.

 

**Babybro,**

**Would you be proud of me? I'm so sorry I couldn't keep my promise. I miss you so much. Do you miss me too?**

 

The Captain made his way past Sam's seat, squeezing the young officer's shoulder. Sam looked up to meet his eyes. The Captain was gone, leaving tired, old Bobby behind. Sam felt the world around him sink as he realized the gravity of what they were fighting against.

"Go home, Wesson."

* * *

"Ash, I need you to pull up the case file on a "Dean Smith." The case closed about five years ago."

"Didn't you work on that one? I know how you operate, Robocop. You still remember that case. Why do you need the file?"

"There's just something I need to see."

Ash gives him a mock salute,

"I'll see what I can do, pardnur."

Sam heads back to his desk and slumps, running his hands through his hair. He needs a haircut. He's starting to look like one of those plainclothes guys. A regular Serpico. He shuts his eyes, trying to find the relief of darkness despite the light bleeding through his eyelids.

"Hey. Hey. Earth to Samsquatch. Come in Samsquatch."

Sam wrinkles his nose,

"I really wish you wouldn't do that."

Ex-FBI Agent Gabriel Laufeysen sits on the edge of Sam's desk, a smile on his face and a sucker staining his tongue green. His hands are in the pockets of his dark green jacket, and he smirks down at Sam from his perch.

"Face it. You'd get bored if I stopped. Singer wanted me to look at the crime scene photos of the murder. Same old, same old."

Sam waves a hand at the new file on his desk.

"Knock yourself out."

Gabriel takes the file, flipping through the photos and frowning. He hops off of his perch and moves to a nearby desk. He shoves the photographs and cup of pens aside, heedless of the fact that the desk he was rudely rearranging was actually Sergeant Turner's, and that said Sergeant would not appreciate the gesture if he wasn't currently at home on sick leave. Sam watches as Gabriel takes out photo after photo, laying them out in a pattern of his own making onto the desk and muttering as he goes.

Ash walks in, file in one hand and coat in the other.

"I'm clocking out. Here's the file. Do you think its related or something?"

"Or something. Take care of yourself, man."

He sets the file on top of the other files on his desk. Right as Sam puts it down, Gabriel snatches it up again, reading the name on the label. His face contorts into a grimace and he unconsciously rubs his right shoulder.

"That was a nasty case." He says, returning the file to its place on Sam's desk. Sam picks up his long cooled cup of coffee and takes a sip,

"Doesn't take too much thought to come to that conclusion. Any insight on the current case?"

Gabriel shrugs, tapping the photo of the bruises on the victim's throat. He slides the sucker out of his mouth, using it to gesture as he speaks,

"Well, your perp is thorough, right handed, strong, and detail oriented. Considering the height of your victim and the positioning of the bruises, it's probably a male. Not necessarily educated, but certainly informed. From these photos, he hasn't left anything behind that he didn't deliberately place. Where's the note she was holding?"

Half-guiltily, Sam fishes the evidence bag out of his coat pocket. Gabriel doesn't even raise an eyebrow. He takes the bag and returns to sitting on Sam's desk. He flattens the plastic so he can read the words underneath. His nose crinkles and his eyes narrow in consternation. His golden eyes flick back to the Dean Smith file.

"Huh."

"It was just a hunch. This one doesn't fit Smith's pattern though. His first victims were a single mom and her son. I'm probably just seeing shapes in clouds."

"Let's hope that's case, Kiddo," he tosses his half finished sucker into a nearby waste basket, "Go home to your wife, Sam. This is a heck of a way to spend a Sunday. Might as well end it pleasantly."

Sam rubs at his temples. It was going to be another dreaming night.

"Yeah, you're probably right, Gabe."

"Sam-a-lam, I'm always right. One of these days you'll finally catch on."

Sam does the mature thing and shoves Gabriel off of his desk.


	2. Chapter 2

II

_Little bird,_

_Rests by my side,_

_Wishing I was free_

* * *

He couldn't remember his parents' faces. When he thought of his mother, he remembered thinking that she was like the sun and could feel soft kisses tickling his cheeks. He remembered riding in a big black car with his father, listening to the music on the radio and being surrounded by the smell of leather and motor oil. He could remember the little things, like how his mother's hands were skilled enough to smoothly take the skin off an apple without once nicking her fingers with the knife; or how his father would toss him high into the air and catch him before he hit the ground. Sometimes he'd wake up grasping at the memory of their voices. But he couldn't remember their faces.

He remembered Sammy. He remembered that chubby smiling baby with the big eyes that used to stare back at him as he'd murmur stories into little ears. It's a well-worn memory, like the pages of his copies of Vonnegut. He remembered the weight and what it felt like to carry Sammy out of the house; just as he remembered his father's saying,

"Take your brother outside as fast as you can – don't look back!"

He remembered watching his house consumed by flames. His father never came back. His mother never got out.

By the time the neighbors got to him, the firemen leading the way, they found him rocking back and forth on his knees, whispering endlessly,

"It's alright, Sammy. I got you. I'm gonna take care of you. Nothing's gonna happen to you. I promise. I'm here, Sammy."

* * *

_He's running. Flames are licking at his feet. Fire roars around him and heavy smoke fills his lungs. In an act of desperation, Sam jumps._

_He falls_

_And dives into a pool of cool dark water. It is bottomlessly deep. He is surrounded by silence and darkness._

_But then there is a pinprick of light. With hardly any sound Sam swims his way towards the light. He is swimming though air. Floating high above a house. He knows he must get closer. He must go inside. He swims his way down, finding an open window to slip through._

_The lights are on, blindingly bright. A man in a tan trench coat walks beneath him. All Sam can see of the man head is his messy, dark brown hair. He crosses under Sam, a silver knife glinting in his hand. Sam opens his mouth to yell, but there is no sound._

_There's a woman tied to a chair. She's struggling desperately to break free of her bonds. She's screaming profanities, trying to keep the man focused on her. She knows, just as Sam knows, that her son is hiding in the closet, and the man is getting closer and closer, and if only she could distract him, maybe her son could survive this, please not Ben, please, Oh God, Ben no!_

_The boy goes down swinging. He tries to beat the man with a baseball bat, but it does no good. The man in the trench coat is a relentless force. Ben puts up a good fight. The man doesn't let him suffer a slow death. He catches the boy before he could crumple to the ground, bleeding from where he was stabbed in the heart; the man lays Ben down gently and closes the boy's eyes._

_The man returns his gaze to the sobbing mother. She has stopped struggling, her despair weighing down her limbs as well as her spirit. The man walks over to her and bends so that their eyes are level and catches her gaze. In her dark brown eyes, Sam sees the steady gaze of a deer locking eyes with hunter. She spits in the man's face. Sam expects the man to hit her in the face, but the man does not. Instead, Sam hears the rumble of a gravely, earthy voice accompanied with the sound of an inhuman screeching pitch. The screech gets louder and louder, to a point where Sam can no longer hear what the man is saying. But he knows the words, because they are rattling his bones, sympathetic vibrations resonating deep within his person until he wanted to scream out from the pain of it._

_"We are born with death in our lungs. The Mother and the Child are the initiation from which there is no return. They are Life personified, and Death cannot exist where there is no Life. Do you understand now? The Mother and Child must be sacrificed to fulfill the first rite."_

_And then there is silence and darkness. Sam's floats and drifts in nothingness._

Sam wakes up with a jolt. He sucks cold air into his lungs and takes in the texture of his ceiling as he feels the dream world drain from his consciousness. He turns and finds himself looking into the green eyes of his wife. He takes in her concern with tired eyes.

"Hey Jess."

"Hey." There's the heavy pause of silence between them. That is one of the beautiful things about the two of them. They can find the depths of the other's soul without words as a guide. Sometimes Sam wonders what his life would be like without her, weaving in and out of his life like a thread of gold, or loving him with a warmth like the sunlight that streams through their bedroom window in the spring. In between these thoughts and his attempts to mentally shed weight of the dream, Sam's work phone goes rings. He flinches, then reaches for it where it flashes on top of his night stand.

"Wesson."

"Well Saminator, you'll never believe it."

"Gabriel?" Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees Jess roll her eyes. He lays on his side, focusing on her as he listens to the voice on the phone continue to rattle on.

"You called it. I'm at a crime scene that matches Smith's first victims; a single mother and her son. The coroner is still on his way up, but from the state of decay, I'd say they've been dead since Friday evening."

"Three days and nobody noticed?"

"Would you believe me if I said somebody stuck a Febreeze thingy in the vent?"

"No."

He hears Gabriel sigh over the phone, and in his mind's eye Sam sees Gabriel running a hand through his hair in frustration.

"I don't know what to say, Sam. No witnesses here. Still haven't found anyone who knew anything about the Engel crime scene. Signs of forced entry and struggle all around, but no trace evidence left behind that forensic has been able to put to any use. It's a copycat, Sam. And one who knew Smith's M.O. to a T."

"There's a note."

"Give the boy a prize," and then the tell-tale crackle of a plastic wrapper before Gabriel pops another sucker into his mouth and then proceeds to talk around it, "Yeah. I'm bagging it right about…now. You can come look at it when you come in. I already called Ash in, so he's going to meet us at the station."

"Right."

"See you there."

"Gabriel wait."

"Yes?"

Sam swallows, then continues,

"What are their names?"

"Braeden. Lisa and Ben Braeden."

Sam shuts his phone, resisting the urge to hurl it across the room; instead, squeezing it in a tight grip. Jess brings up a hand to cup his face, the warmth soothing the tension he feels.

"Do you want to talk?"

Sam sits up and stretches his arms and his back. He picks up his badge and lightly tosses and catches it, eyes focused on a corner of the ceiling.

"Do you remember the Dean Smith case from five years ago?"

Jess sits up as well, wrapping her arms around her knees and tilting her head attentively.

"The Silent Hunter? How could I forget? You almost died. Gabriel almost died."

He gets up and gets dressed. The dead have all the time in the world, but the living who solve the mystery of their death need all the time they can get. If the murderer was following Smith's path, he would kill again.

"Last night there was a murder that matched Cassie Robinson, his third victim; left a note behind and everything. They just found two others that match Amy Pond and her son."

"And the nightmare? Was it one of your dreams?"

"Yes."

* * *

Ash holds up the letter from the Braeden crime scene and compares it to the photograph of the Pond letter.

"Sam, you and Gabriel worked the original case."

"Yeah."

Sam holds the original Pond letter, running a finger tip along the words.

 

**Babybro,**

**I wish we'd had an apple pie life. Thought I'd try it for myself, but it's not the same without you.**

 

"No prints left behind. Like Smith. No witnesses at the scene. Like Smith. No trace evidence that's led to any leads. Also like Smith. How do you want to explain it?" He passes Sam the Braeden letter.

"I don't want to explain it."

_Dearheart,_

_I wish we'd had a house. I wish our lives were perfect and that we could be a family together. It's not the same without you._

 

They had never allowed the media access to the content of the letters. The only people who knew the words Smith left behind were the investigating officers and anyone else with access to the case files. Their copycat must be someone who was either close to Dean Smith or obsessed with him. Gabriel bursts into the room waving a file triumphantly.

"Forensics just in. The Braedens-"

"Were killed by the same weapon; a smooth bladed knife. The son, Ben, died first. His mother's throat was cut shortly after. The killer left the letter on the mantel piece."

"Robocop strikes again. He hasn't even looked at the crime scene photos yet."

Gabriel pulls a face.

"I hate when you do that."

Ash leans back in his chair and holds a pencil up to his lip.

"Are you officially working this case with us now, Laufeysen?"

"Yes. And I've been instructed by Singer to keep myself out of the way of any firefights. He forgets that I used to be a professional."

"Can you blame him? You practically worship the sugar plum fairy."

Gabriel rolls his eyes and throws a purple jolly rancher at Ash's head.

"Singer's giving us a task force to handle this thing. We're supposed to brief them in an hour," he picked up the case file and started walking out, "Come on! Day light's burning."


	3. Chapter 3

III

_Little bird,_

_You're leaving me_

_Alone in this gray place._

_I cannot fly_

_To follow you_

_And join you at the sea._

* * *

He wanted to die. He dangled on the rack; head hung low, eyes growing heavy. He wanted to quietly slip out of the world, out of the pain that came with living in it. His breathing was heavy, his lungs felt like they couldn't take in the oxygen from the air. He flinched at the sound of familiar footsteps approaching where he hung on the basement wall. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard the sound of a murmured tune.

 

_I love the looks of you, the lure of you_

_The sweet of you, the pure of you_

_The eyes, the arms, the mouth of you_

_The east, west, north, and the south of you_

 

"Dean, Dean, Dean," the cool touch of a blade traced his purpling cheek, "How long will we have to play this game?"

He gasped in pain as a trickle of blood ran down his cheek from the path the knife sliced. It took every ounce of his willpower not to jerk away, an action guaranteed to encourage his tormenter's "creativity."

"Don't you want to get off of the rack, Dean?"

The knife lifted the hem of his shirt, tickling his side. His breath came in sharply, cold air whispering over the tip of his tongue and into his lungs.

"I'll put down my blade if you pick one up."

He stayed silent. The chains hanging from the ceiling rattled softly, as if to tell him, _Give up. Give in._ But he couldn't. He had to stay good. He had to stay strong. They took Sammy away from him, but he was going to find his brother again. They were going to live together; away from pain and hurt; far away from where anyone could lay a hand on them ever again. He knew he could have that dream if he could hold on; keep holding onto that part of himself that his tormenter could never touch.

Alastair clicked his tongue, disappointed.

"Such a stubborn boy. Won't break, will he?"

The knife dug in, and the sound of Dean's screams reverberated and bounced inside the basement.

_I'd love to gain complete control of you_

_And handle even the heart and soul of you_

_So love at least a small percent of me do_

_For I love all of you_

* * *

"The best way to understand an artist is to understand their influences. Our copycat sees himself as an artist, and this is the man he is basing himself off of; Dean Smith."

Defiant green eyes stare out from the handsome face that appears on the screen. The darkened room rustles and hums as people shift in their seats and murmur to each other. Sam ignores them and continues,

"Dean Smith; originally named Dean Winchester. His parents, John and Mary Winchester, died in a house fire due to bad wiring when he was four years old. He was found by neighbors and the fire department outside the house with his little brother, a six-month old, Samuel Winchester.

"Smith was put in extensive therapy after the fire. Once he was deemed stable enough to be placed in a home environment, he was placed in the foster care system. He went in and out of five homes in as many years. The fifth home, he stayed in until he was twelve. Then the system loses track of him."

"Why?" asks one of the plain clothes officers.

"He ran away. He was under the radar for a long time. At some point he was picked up by M.C. Alastair, who some of you might remember as Hell's Torturer."

The room gives a collective shudder. Sam takes a sip of water before speaking once more.

"It's unknown how long he spent under the knife, but at some point Smith gave in and became Alastair's student. He avoided charges by being one of the key witnesses for the prosecution in Alastair's trial. He was sixteen at the time. He got his GED, joined the army; did well for all intents and purposes. Then, five years ago, as you all should remember, he murdered eight people and killed two FBI agents before being captured."

Ash changes the slide and takes over speaking.

"Smith left behind a signature at his crime scenes, which our copycat is mimicking,"

On the screen are side by side comparisons of four notes, the copycat's two and Smith's first two. "The syntax is nearly identical. Though Smith never confirmed it, we're pretty certain that 'Babybro' was meant to be his little brother, Samuel."

A hand is raised.

"What happened to the little brother?"

"Lost in the system," Gabriel answers, "He was adopted by another family, his records were sealed, and his name was changed. We never managed to track him down. And even if we did, whoever the kid was—he had to be about twenty-four at that point—he was completely uninvolved. Smith was a loner, thankfully."

"So then," says one of the younger officers, Kevin Tran, "who's the copycat's 'Dearheart?'"

"We don't know," answers Sam, "We're going over the old files to get a better grasp of Smith's M.O. and working on establishing how Smith chose his victims. Our copycat has killed three people so far. Smith's fourth victim was businessman Zachariah Adler, later discovered to have been embezzling millions from the company he was employed at."

Gabriel shuts off the projector, plunging the room into darkness before flipping on the lights,

"In any case, we are all going to work together to catch this copycat. Wesson and Miles will keep you up to date on anything we find. Do you two have anything else to say?"

Sam and Ash shake their heads.

"Dismissed." says Ash.

* * *

The next day finds Sam, Gabriel, and Ash poring over the files once more, making note of anything potentially useful. Sam leans back in his chair, stretching his arms and glancing in the doorway. He smiles in recognition at the sight of a familiar trim, figure; Madison Lukos.

"Hey stranger." he says with a smile.

The ADA returns his smile and walks into the room.

"It's been a while, Sam. We need to do lunch some time."

"Yeah. Totally."

In the background, Gabriel and Ash take a break from the files and observe the two, rolling their eyes and shaking their heads.

"So what brings you up here?"

"Oh, I've got something for you," she digs around in her brief case, "Remember that case I told you the DA put me on, the corruption investigation?"

"Raphael Sandover?"

"Well, Sandover was found dead in his home this morning. Technically I'm not even supposed to be handling this, but I said I'd walk it down to you myself," She takes out an evidence bag with a blood stained note inside, "They found this at the crime scene."

"Shit."

"Nicely put."

 

_Dearheart,_

_Don't let anyone bring you down. I wish I could be with you. Please stay strong._

 

"Much as I hate to turn my case over to you, it's yours now. I know it's in good hands." There's a slight hesitation before she hands the evidence bag over to Sam.

"Sam?"

"Yes?"

"Your guy…he's very good. He managed to get through Sandover's security, which I don't have to tell you is top notch. Be careful, okay?"

Sam smiles softly

"Yeah, I'll be careful."

She makes to leave, but Sam stops her.

"Do you happen to remember who was assigned to Smith's case when he went to trial?"

Madison looks up at the ceiling for a few seconds before answering,

"Dellamorte. Tessa Dellamorte. She's still working in the Defender's office. It shouldn't be too hard to get a hold of her. I have to go clean up what's left of my case, now."

She gives a small wave to Ash and Gabriel before making her way out, the sound of heels clicking as she moved down the hall. When Sam turns back to the other two, he frowns at the looks on their faces.

"What?"

Gabriel snickers and pops a butterscotch into his mouth, "You two."

"What?" Sam's brow wrinkles in exasperation.

"I'm telling you; another time, another place, you two would have been all over each other."

"Gabe, no."

"Not saying anything's happening. Just saying you two have good chemistry is all."

"Get out."

"Hey, she wasn't paying any attention to me or Ash, despite the fact we are fine figures of men."

"We're just friends!"

"Calm down, Samoose. I'm just teasing."

Sam groans and rubs at his eyes,

"Ash, tell me you have something."

"Well, Tessa Dellamorte is definitely up there on the list of people to talk to. Smith spoke with her quite frequently before he was incarcerated. From the looks of things, he was more open with her than anyone else they tried to get him to talk to.

"Also, and this is very important, we have to catch this guy before he makes his eighth kill. After his eighth victim, Smith slipped off of the radar. No sign of anything for two weeks. And then, the police pick up an anonymous call on his whereabouts from a phone booth. And the rest, you know since you were both there.

"And last, but not least, we could always talk to Smith ourselves."

Gabriel drops the pencil he was fiddling with and Sam almost spits out his coffee. Before he can protest, Ash raises a hand and continues,

"Smith is on Death Row guys. His execution day is in exactly a week. You say we need to get inside his head to pull out his pattern. The best way to do that is to talk to him ourselves. And he's got an expiration date.

"Absolutely not. There's no way we'd even be able to get the clearance to talk to him."

"It's actually not as difficult as you're making it out to be Sam."

"Gabriel. Ash. No." Sam stands up to his full height, "We are not going to talk to him. We are not going to go anywhere near him. We are going to catch this copycat and we are going to do it without the help of Dean Smith."

"Sam-"

"He is going to die alone and I refuse to let him have the chance to gloat over his victims. End of story."

Sam strides out of the room, determined to walk off the sudden hit of anger that seemed to have injected itself in his veins.

 

**Babybro,**

**Don't take crap from anyone. I wish I could have been there to teach you. I hope you are strong.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Alastair sings is All of You by Cole Porter. Fred Astaire sang it in the movie Silk Stockings.


	4. Chapter 4

IV

_The sky is vast, my little one_

_And night is cruel and cold._

_The hollow trees, they cannot know_

_How much of me you hold._

* * *

He held out for a long time. It was admirable. It was brave.

But eventually, he broke.

It happened when he was locked in the attic, with only a barred window for a view. He drank in the outside world with his eyes, took in the trees and the leaves; the sky and the clouds. He had no idea how long he had been in this hell of a place. Outside, he saw two boys run by, probably in a game of tag. And like that, the walls crumbled down and it came like a flood, filled his senses until there was nothing left. He realized that even if he did leave, he would never find his brother again. It was too long. His brother wasn't a baby anymore. He wouldn't recognize Sammy even if he passed him in the street.

Despair settled into his bones, and for the first time, he broke into uncontrollable sobs. They kicked the breath from his lungs, hammered against his chest and his back until he was left whimpering on the floor. His heart was ripped from his chest, and his cheek rested on the dirty floor as he once more mourned the loss of the last of his family.

Even if he saw Sammy again, he was too broken to be a part of his little brother's life.

He didn't move at the sound of footsteps of the stairs, or the lifting of the latch, or the turn of the knob. When Alastair gripped his shoulders and lifted him from the floor to ask that fatal question, he looked wearily into the man's eyes and answered,

"Yes."

In less than a year, he had become Alastair's favorite, his star pupil. The culmination of his work was when he tortured one of Alastair's graduates, Meg, for five hours straight, keeping her awake for it the entire time.

"I carved you into a new animal." Alastair purred, admiring the symbols Dean had carved into her pale skin. Meg's breath moved in wheezing, wet gasps, her lungs having been punctured about fifteen minutes ago. Dean raised his knife, ready to end her life, but Alastair stopped him.

"Don't sully your hands, my boy."

Slowly, he ran his bloodstained fingers through her dark hair, and just like that, he rammed his own knife through her heart.

"You are destined for far greater things."

* * *

"State your name for the record, please."

"My name is Dean Winchester. I'm an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach and frisky women."

"Cute." says Ash, tossing the remote to Gabriel. Sam, Ash, and Gabriel sit back in their chairs, watching, on a grainy screen, Dean Smith's deposition against Alastair. It's strange, watching the tape. Dean Smith was sixteen years old at the time, but there was something so empty in his eyes. His answers to the FBI Agent questioning him were humorous in form, but there was no mirth in the dark, green eyes. Sam saw the yellowed bruises fading from underneath the boy's freckled skin, the healing cut above the eyebrow, the seemingly relaxed posture, and it just made him sad. Dean at sixteen was broken. Dean at sixteen was already beyond saving. And thirteen years later, the horror he began was at work again.

"What was your involvement with Alastair?"

"Well, he made me carve for one. He'd take me and the other kids, and he'd go cruisin' for 'new initiates.' And he'd tell me to get out of the car and get the kid to ride with us. And I would. And when we got back to the house, we'd put them on the rack until they broke. Or he'd bring back some guy or a lady, and he'd show us how to do as he did. He'd make it a hands-on lesson. Said it was the best way to get us to learn. And when he figured we'd learned enough, he'd finish them off right before our eyes. Sometimes I can still hear them screaming."

His eyes lost focus as his fingers traced small patterns into the table he was seated at. He was tired physically and mentally; the records of the youth facility he was placed in indicated that Dean, while he was in custody, had not had a good night's sleep for an entire week. Despite that, he continued to answer the agent's questions; providing nightmarish details in subtle, round-about ways, only explicitly stating the facts when asked. As they reached the end of the deposition, the agent said,

"Thank you, Dean. We'll make sure no one will ever hurt you like that again."

Dean's gaze on the table hardens for a moment, a trace of bitterness crossing his face. Then his eyes snap up, and behind them is pure defiance.

"Michael, right? Well Mike, let me tell you something. You can't promise me jack shit."

Part of Sam, a small part that had been whispering to him ever since the bodies were discovered, aches and mourns what Dean Smith could have been. In the transcripts of the other children and teens under Alastair's thumb, Dean was always mentioned as a protector; a hero. Sam tried to silence that crying part of himself; ignore it, quash it down, anything to get it to shut up. But it wouldn't.

_Don't fool yourself. You know who he is. You know what he is._ It whispered.

* * *

_Five years ago_

Sam walked purposefully down the upper hall of the Courthouse. Long practice brought him to the door that he sought, and he knocked three times before entering. A young man was seated behind the front desk. He blinked up at Sam in surprise, not that Sam could blame him. He was in a filthy uniform; had cuts and bruises on his face; a bandage on his hand that still was soaking up leaking blood, despite the fact that it was only a few days ago that he had injured his hand; and in his good hand he clutched a manila envelope.

"Can I help you?" the young man asked tentatively.

"Yes," Sam glanced at the placard on the desk, "Alfie. I need access to certain files."

The law clerk frowned, then picked up the placard and flipped it to read the name. He groaned and muttered briefly to himself, before looking back up at Sam,

"What kind?"

"Mine. Sorry. That wasn't exactly clear. I want to access my sealed adoption records. I know I don't have an appointment to talk to Judge Moseley, but I know she'll see me. Is she in?"

"Yes," Alfie stood up, "I'll check with her first. Officer…?"

"Wesson."

Sam didn't have to wait long. Soon, he was seated on a comfortable couch with a cup of tea in his hand, shifting uncomfortably under Missouri Moseley's piercing stare.

"Shouldn't you be in the hospital?"

"They released me yesterday."

She took a hold of his chin, shifting his face back and forth, examining his wounds. She'd always been like a mother to him. His adoptive parents were always kind enough to him, but he'd always felt a connection to his neighbor, and would pester her frequently throughout the years. Now, was no different from when he was ten years old and begging shamelessly for oatmeal cookies.

"Sam, what fool thing do you want to do, poking around in your own adoption records? You never felt the need before. Why now?"

He sighed, wincing at the soreness in his ribs.

"There's something I need to know."

She sighed, taking out his petition from the envelope and taking a pen from her desk.

"You shouldn't go poking around in things best left alone."

She signed the authorization and passed the petition back to Sam and gave him a hug, patting him gently on the back.

"I hope you find what you're looking for."

He thanks her and walks out the door, not once looking back.

* * *

_Present_

Sam runs a hand through his hair and sighs. When he walked out on Ash and Gabriel the other day, he called the department psychiatrist and scheduled an appointment. He needed someone to talk to then, and he still needs a person to talk to now. So now he sits in a waiting room. He picks up one of the magazines on the coffee table and flips impatiently through the glossy pages. He doesn't actually want to know "25 New Tummy Tucking Techniques," so he tosses it back to the table. Before he can make another impulse decision, the door opens and the smiling face of Dr. Sarah Blake peeks out.

"Hey, Sam! Come on in."

Inside, he sits in the chair by the window, and she takes a seat near the door.

"So, how have you been? How's Jess?"

"Um, Jess is good. She's happy at her job as the school nurse at the elementary school. We've been doing good. We're planning to visit her parents when I get some more time off again."

"That's good. Spending time with family is important," She leans forward in her chair, "But I get the feeling you're not sitting in here with me because of in-law jitters."

Sam stares down at his hands before answering.

"I really need someone to talk to."

She sits cross-legged in her chair, giving him a sad smile. This is not the first time they've been here, and it probably won't be the last.

"I'm here."

He thinks over his words carefully before continuing,

"This case that I'm working on…I think I'm compromised. Scratch that. I _know_ I'm compromised."

"What makes you say that?"

He opens his mouth to answer, but stops. He doesn't want to say it. Reading it and knowing it is one thing. But saying it…

"Sam, look at me."

He meets her eyes. There he sees the warmth, and caring, and reassurance he needs.

"What's said in this room does not leave this room. It's like Vegas. It's okay."

He gives her a brief smile.

"Dean Smith is my older brother. It wasn't a problem before because I only found out after we got him in custody. But now..."

"With the copycat killer, you're doubting your ability to be impartial." She finishes. Sam nods silently. She stretches out her legs and crosses them under her chair.

"I'm assuming you haven't told anyone else on the case," she tilts her head, considering, "If you honestly believe that you can't work this case, walk away Sam. I'll back you up and tell the Commissioner something. If you think you being on the case is helping more than hindering, then I think you should stay on it. I'll still be here to listen if you need to air anything out. It's your call, and I'm here for you, either way."

"Thanks Sarah."

"No problem," She sits back in her chair and smiles, "So, you sure you don't want to talk about those in-laws? I have some phenomenal tips for how to deal with them."

Sam smiles and laughs, feeling a little less over-whelmed and a little more like himself.

"Nah. I'm supposed to be at the Public Defender's after this."

"Then I better let you go. Also because our time is almost up."

As he rises from his seat, she wraps him in a tight hug.

"It'll be alright. Remember, this doesn't change the fact that you're still Sam, and you're still a good man."

* * *

The Public Defender's office lies on the west wing of the third floor of the Courthouse. Sam walks up the wide stairs, past a sea of black suited attorneys walking briskly with environmentally-friendly cups of hot coffee and case files tucked under their arms.

Standing outside the door of the Public Defender's office was a woman with shoulder-length black hair holding two steaming cups.

"Detective Wesson?"

"That's me."

"Your associate, Detective Miles, said you'd be coming. Let's head inside."

He holds the door open for her, and, once they are both in, she hands him one of the cups and strides purposefully past a huddle of black suits into a quiet, corner office.

It was different from the other offices he had seen. Madison's was a place full of light colored, welcoming furniture; mildly chaotic in its organization, but ultimately navigatable. The DA's office was clinically cold, with slick black surfaces and stainless steel. Tessa Dellamorte's office ran more along the lines of old elegance, with dark wood bookshelves and leather seats. Once they are both comfortably seated, she says,

"What can I do for you, Detective?"

Sam jumps, slightly, in his seat,

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

He had gotten distracted by a macabre ink print of a raven perched on a dark, twisted tree. Tessa smiles kindly and repeats her question. Sam frowns in confusion,

"Detective Miles didn't tell you?"

"I'd rather hear it from you."

Sam steals one last disturbed look at the raven tree.

"I need any information you can give on how Dean Smith chose his victims, possible explanations for his movements, how he planned his kills and how he managed to avoid capture for so long, if possible. From all accounts, the two of you were close for the duration of his trial. You even visited him the first couple months of his imprisonment."

She gazes at him from behind her desk, picks up a pen and taps it against her desk.

"I'm not sure I can help."

"Attorney-client privilege can be waived since you'd be providing information to prevent a crime."

"I'm pretty sure that's not the proper usage for how that exception applies, but that's not what I meant."

She looks away and lets out a huff of breath. Her brow creases slightly as she slips deeper into thought, trying to find the right words.

"Dean is…unique, to say the least. He probably could have gotten a lighter sentence on an insanity defense, but he was very adamant that he wasn't a "psycho" and he wasn't going to say he was one just to get off."

"You actually think he deserved a lighter sentence?"

She gives him a flat look to tell him just how stupid she thought that question was.

"Of course. You may not be able to understand this, but over the course of his trial we became friends. Even now, I wouldn't invite him over for dinner, but we're still friends. So yes, you're right to think that of the people you can talk to, excluding Dean himself, I'm the person who knows him best."

Sam leans forward, wishing she'd get to the point.

"Will you help or not?"

She sighs and looks away, briefly gathering her thoughts. She leans over her desk, almost conspiratorily.

"What you need to understand is that Alastair was an occultist. He believed in magic and curses and spells. And Dean believed in it too. He didn't see those people as people at all. In his eyes, they were necessary sacrifices to completing a spell."

She looks at Sam with a raised brow.

"You see what I mean about the insanity defense. Anyway, he never told me what the spell was supposed to accomplish."

She opens her desk drawer and pulls out a file. Sam leans further forward to watch as she flips through the papers within the file. She pauses at a yellow sheet from a legal pad, and gently lifts it out.

"On the last day of his trial, when the judge gave him his sentence, Dean gave this to me. I had hoped I would never have to look at it again."

_The first belongs to the mother and child,_

_The second to the heavenly maiden,_

_The third shall go to one swollen by pride,_

_The fourth to the hungriest demon,_

_The fifth is given out of love,_

_The sixth out of deepest friendship,_

_The seventh is for the brothers by blood,_

_And the last for the hunters now hunted._

"Based on this, our copycat is on his fourth. Dean saw Dick Roman as 'the hungriest demon?'"

"Under Dean's logic, a politician notorious for taking bribes would fit the bill. Actually, that might fit with a lot of people's logic. Anyway, I don't know how much this will help you, but-"

"It does. Believe me, Ms. Dellamorte, it does."

"Good luck, Detective Wesson."

 

**Babybro,**

**There are monsters in this world. You have to be brave. You have to face your fears. Monsters don't expect the meat to bite back.**

* * *

Sam jogs into the station, ready to share his new find and see what Ash could make of it. He comes to skidding halt at the smirk on the desk clerk's face.

"Something up, Inias?"

"No sir." The desk clerk continues to smile, this time even wider. Sam frowns, and starts to walk up the stairs at a slower pace. Maybe Gabriel had set up a prank. Again. In which case, Sam had better find some way to protect the "spell" from whatever Gabriel had planned for him. He pauses in front of the door of their shared workspace. He can hear the sound of Ash laughing, Gabriel talking, and-

"-that's what happens when you're not three hundred mil."

"Jess!"

Sam bursts in through the door, startling Gabriel from the tail end of his joke. Jess is seated comfortably in Sam's swivel chair, and she turns it around slowly, still giggling over the punch line. Sam makes his way over and kisses the top of her head, reveling in the smell of perfume and pure Jess.

"What brings you to my neck of the woods?"

"I made us lunch." There are two brown paper sacks sitting between his piles of paper with both their names written in marker. He gazes adoringly down at her.

"What would I do without you?"

"Crash and burn."

Sam ignores the kissy noises Gabriel makes as he holds Jess's hand, supporting her as she got up from his chair. Ash leans forward from his desk, calling,

"Hey, before you leave, how was the public defender?"

"Well she's crazy."

"Wait. How crazy? Like, Dingo-ate-my-baby crazy?"

"I wouldn't have put it that way, but yeah. I think that about sums it up. She gave me this, though." He takes the paper out of his pocket and passes it to Ash.

"Hopefully you can make something of it."

"I'm on it, amigo. Have a good lunch."

* * *

Sam returns better than he'd felt all day. It isn't often that Jess is able to visit him, and the world always seems like a brighter place when she does. Ash is at his desk, typing away at his laptop and scribbling into a notepad. Gabriel still hasn't returned from his lunch. Sam's ready to get back in the game, but first he has to take care of business.

"Hey Ash," The detective glances up from the diagram he'd been working on, "I'm sorry about the other day."

"No man, we're cool. I wasn't really thinking when I suggested it."

"No, but-"

"Sam. It's fine. Enough with the puppy eyes. The fact that you're even able to work this case is impressive. Don't get down on yourself. That's no bueno. Besides," he tucks his pencil behind his ear, "we have worse things to stress over.

"If our copycat is following this, as Smith supposedly was, it's gonna be harder to catch him before he kills again. The first through the fourth were all people who had little to no ties to Smith; they were outsiders. But starting here: 'The fifth is given out of love;' that was Layla Rourke. They were friends. She had a brain tumor. 'The sixth out of deepest friendship,' Jo Harvelle, they were both in the same foster home, before Smith ended up with Alastair. They maintained contact with each other, even after that. And the last victim, Benny Lafitte, his buddy in the army. These last three were victims personally tied to Smith himself. There's no way of predicting who our copycat will choose."

They both whip their heads towards the door as Gabriel swings it on its hinges and slams it as he strides inside.

"We have a problem. I just got back from a crime scene." He tosses a note in an evidence bag onto Ash's desk.

 

_Dearheart,_

_There are monsters in the world. Do not worry. I'm facing them down. I'm fighting back._

 

Sam and Ash gaze down at it in horror. Sam picks it up gingerly, wincing at the feeling of the residual glee left behind by the copycat.

"Who-?"

"Dick Roman. Business man. Guy had the same name. What were the chances, right?" He slumps down into Sam's empty desk chair. His posture oozes frustration.

"Sam," he snaps from where he slouches, "I understand how you feel, and I understand that you don't want to see him-"

"Gabe-"

"-but you are going. Ash is right and you know it. Suck it up and play your role."

"What the hell am I supposed to ask him about? Ash can bring you up to speed on this, but the copycat is going to pull from people he knows now. What good will it do the case for me to go there?"

Gabriel's eyes flash as his patience grows thin.

"I asked around," he growls, "Dean Smith had a cellmate. They were close. Intimately close. Smith started a riot when he got released two years ago. It's what landed him on Death Row. Ask about him, if nothing else."

There's enough tension in the room to stifle an elephant. Ash's eyes flick from Sam to Gabriel, as if observing a silent tennis match. Quietly, Sam says through gritted teeth,

"You can't give me orders, you're a civilian." There's a beat of silence before Gabriel quips back,

"I'm a washed up ex-FBI Agent who still outranks you in awesome, so there."

Gabriel grins, and stress wheezes out of the room like air from a balloon. They burst into the laughter that comes only out only times of desperation and relieved anger. They laugh until their sides ache from the pain of it and their lungs refuse to push out more air. Finally, once their lungs have settled, Gabriel says,

"Castiel Novak. Remember that name. Ask him about Castiel Novak."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "300 mil" is a reference to a running gag between my friends and I.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where I am, the New Year has not yet come upon us. So I got this up and posted before the end of the year! Mission accomplished!

V

_I'll give you a sun to warm your song,_

_So your heart will remember it's free;_

_And a wind to lift your tattered wings,_

_And fly you home to me._

* * *

The rain came down in sheets, soaking the police officers and FBI agents below, water seeping through their jackets. From where he stood, Sam could hear Lieutenant Azazel talking to Agent Lucifer – Nick Lucien, but Gabriel had called him Lucifer and the name stuck—about the strategy for approaching the large concrete building in which the Silent Hunter was hiding. An anonymous tip had come in, and the behavioralists and profilers hemmed and hawed and conferred among themselves before finally agreeing that the tip was a very good one. An abandoned building on the outskirts of the industrial zone, isolated and lonely; it was perfect, befitting a protégé of M.C. Alastair. Sam shivered, the movement shaking drops from the edge of his hooded jacket.

"Hey Sam," Gabriel said, sidling up beside him and bumping an elbow against Sam's arm,

"Tonight's the night, officer. You up and rarin' to go?"

Sam grimaced, running a hand through his hair, slicking it back in the process.

"Agent Laufeysen, you are entirely too chipper."

"Sugar high. You ought to be used to it by now." Sam rolled his eyes when the agent took out a chocolate bar and broke off a chunk, popping it into his mouth and chewing slowly. Gabriel continued,

"Besides, if all goes well, when this night is over you'll all be able to rest easy in your beds. And I get to go home to my dog; who is probably tearing up my brother's apartment." He sighed fondly and held the bar out to Sam. Sam broke off a chunk for himself and took a bite. It wasn't as sweet as he expected it to be. When it hit his tongue, it was a spike of energy, but it was also soothing and calming. No wonder the agent was constantly eating this stuff in all the time Sam had known him.

"Lucifer's going with his team through the front. We're going to go around and through the side. I'm glad you're on my team."

"Really now?"

"Yeah! Smart boy like you; you'd make a great agent."

They pulled out their guns, giving them one last once over, silently praying that their weapons won't fail them. Gabriel finished his chocolate and wadded up the wrapper, stuffing it into his pocket.

"Hell, even Lucifer likes you. If you ever set your sights on the FBI, I'd be happy to recommend you."

Sam shook his head, smiling despite the gravity of the situation they were in. That was Gabriel for you. He could feel the tension in his shoulders loosen as he took comfort in the pure warmth of the other man's friendliness. It seemed nothing could taint or mar it; not even hunting a serial killer. Sam turned his gaze back to the ominously gloomy building.

"First, let's make it out of this thing alive."

"Well, yeah, Sam-stein. That's kind of required."

Gabriel's whipped his focus back to Lucifer. There was a silent exchange of hand signals on Lucifer's part and lots of arm waving and exaggerated facial expressions on Gabriel's part. Lucifer rolled his eyes and waved at his men to follow him forward. Gabriel turned back to Sam, flashing him a toothy, predatory grin. He waved at the others in their unit to tell them to start moving to the side of the building.

"Well, off we go into the fray."

Save for the sound of rain on the tin roof, the building was dead quiet. Sam could feel the fear begin to rise in the others around him and course through his own veins. He was too aware of his own heart beat. His breaths became shallower as he tried to keep his breathing quiet, straining his ears to listen.

And then, like a clap of thunder, the sound of a single bullet fired from a revolver bounced and reverberated against the concrete walls. Gabriel took off in the direction of the shot, Sam close behind.

* * *

"Let me get this straight. You want to be in a small enclosed room alone with one of the most dangerous men in this prison; who is, I might add, set to be lethally injected in five days?"

"Mr. Walker, considering how many wheels had to be greased to get me here even negotiating this with you today, I highly doubt Detective Miles didn't fill you in."

Gordon Walker, the prison warden and keeper of the keys, scoffs and rolls his eyes. From inside his crisp suit jacket, he pulls out a stapled packet of papers folded in thirds and tossed it dismissively onto his desk, passing Sam a pen. Sam raises his eyebrows and accepts the pen, removing the cap.

"That's the agreement saying that you can't sue the prison for any injuries incurred in this facility and if you're taken hostage, we will not negotiate for your release."

Sam meets Walker's gaze evenly as he signs the document.

"Your funeral."

The warden pockets the papers, saying "walk this way" as he leads Sam through the prison and into a room with one barred window. There's a metal table welded to the middle of the room, and two cold metal chairs placed on either side of it. On the other side of the room, across from the door Sam entered from, was another ponderously heavy door. Walker leaves a panic button in the room before exiting.

"Hit this when you're done talking. He'll be in shortly."

Sam tosses his folder of papers onto the table and slumps down in one of the chairs, burying his face in his hands and running his fingers through his hair. This was stupid. This was unnecessary. This was the last place on earth that he wanted to be. His internal Gabriel, perpetually hyped up on sugar, hops up and down in frustration and threatens to go berserk if he dares to back himself out. Sam lets out a huff of frustration.

"Get it together, Sam. Suck it up."

In the distance, he can hear the clang of metal. He perks up, letting his ears take in the sounds coming nearer.

Clinking metal shackles. Footsteps on concrete. The slide of barred metal doors.

The door opens, and Dean Smith is led into the room under an escort of four guards. They seat him at the other chair, chaining his shackles to the table legs. The head guard gives Sam a nod before they exit, a silent assurance that they would answer promptly when he hits the panic button. Dean keeps his head turned, listening behind him as they exit. It's only when the sounds of them have faded completely away that he turns his focus to Sam. Sam doesn't give himself time to hesitate or lose his nerve.

"My name is Sam Wesson. I am a detective and I'm investigating a recent set of murders. I'm here to consult with you because you possibly have insight into the case. There are no cameras in this room; no recording devices. It's just you and me."

In the time that Sam speaks, Dean lets his attention wander to the barred window. The light streaming in gives his eyes a haunting glow and casts worn shadows on his tired face. Sam sees a broken man, so very distant from the one that glared out at him from five years ago.

"Do you think," his eyes flicked up to Sam's, "you could get them to shut the lights off?"

Sam tilts his head, a noise of confusion escaping his lips. Dean leans back in his chair, his gestures towards the ceiling accompanied by the high chinkling of metal upon metal.

"They keep them on 24/7 in my cell. You'd think it was a waste of electricity, but no. My hours are filled with the sound of a fluorescent, sixty second hum. Sometimes I wonder who I have to kill to get them to flip off the light switch. Well," he meets Sam's eyes again, a spark of playfulness dancing behind them, "not literally."

Sam folds his hands on the table.

"I have no power to negotiate anything with the prison staff."

"Then why the hell would I even talk to you?" Dean snorts.

"You can always go back to the hum."

Dean licks his lips and returns his gaze out the window. His eyes lose focus and Sam imagines his mind flies far and farther away, like the little birds that Jess liked to watch hop about the back porch in winter. They don't have time for this. Sam opens his manila folder and tosses a stack of photographs onto the table. Dean picks it up, shuffling through them. He grimaces at the crime scene photos of Zachariah Adler and Dick Roman and tosses them out of the stack in disgust. But he pauses over the rest, his eyes drinking in the images. He strokes a finger over the face of one, a pretty girl with dirty blonde hair and peacefully closed eyes. Unlike the others, her body is undamaged, saved for a single needle mark on the side of her neck.

"Layla Rourke." Sam says, hoping to break whatever trance Dean had slipped into. Dean slides the photos back, but his eyes linger upon them.

"She was…pure. Kind. She didn't deserve the shit Life gave her."

"You're right, Dean. She didn't deserve to get a brain tumor. She didn't deserve to find out that she only had six months left to live. She didn't deserve to die, Dean. And you killed her."

Dean slams his hand down on the table. The sound of it rings through the room like a clap of thunder.

"You know nothing, Sammy." He snarls.

"Don't call me that." Sam hisses.

"What? Sammy? That's who you are," Whatever wall that held Dean back before was gone now; the pretense of being broken, dropped and cast away, "You're not Sam Wesson any more than I'm Dean Smith. It's fake," he smirks, and his eyes shine with a dark, bitter gleam, "It's a pipe dream. I know who you are."

"Don't."

"Sam Winchester. My Babybro. I'd recognize your soul anywhere. Though I gotta say, the police thing is a bit of a surprise."

"What," Sam rises to the bait, his anger bubbling to the surface, "You thought I'd be like you?"

"No," Dean leans back, lifting two of his chair's legs off of the floor and giving Sam a small smile, "I thought maybe you'd grow up to be some big shot lawyer. I like it though. It means you _are_ like me."

"I'm nothing like you." Sam growls; drawing out the 'o' of 'nothing.' In his mind's eye, he sees himself unwinding his anger like a ball of thread as he walked further into the labyrinth of Dean's design.

"Of course you are," Dean answers matter-of-factly, "You were in the Night Hunt. It stained your very being so nothing can wash it out. Not drugs, not drink, not sex. It made you a hunter like me."

"Is that what you did to Castiel Novak? Make him a hunter like you?"

Dean's eyebrows shoot up, and his eyes change from predatory to open; almost human. The court belongs to Sam now, and he must reign supreme. For everyone's sake, he must. Dean shifts forward, returning his chair's legs firmly to the ground. His face is open and earnest, and under the surface is an emotion Sam can't quite pin down.

"Cas? Cas is like sweet rain. He's above and beyond anything you or I could ever hope to be. He's an angel."

He wants Sam to understand. Dean needs Sam to understand. And in that realization, it dawns on Sam what it is he is seeing in Dean.

_Desperation._

The invincible Dean Smith found his weakness, not in the vast world of the outside, but in the controlled stillness inside concrete walls. It had to be some kind of cosmic joke.

He pulls out the photos of the copycat's—is there really any doubt left that Castiel is the copycat?—victims, tossing them onto the cold, metal of the table.

Dean gives the photographs a cursory glance, and Sam does not miss the small smile that graces his face. Nor does he miss the words that Dean murmurs almost tenderly.

"He does love me."

Sam almost feels bitterness like bile rising from his throat.

"And if truly loves you, he will walk along the same path. The Night Hunt…?"

" _And the last for the hunters now hunted._ "

Cold creeps into the room, seeping through the layers of Sam's clothes to whisper against his skin as the pieces fall into place and realization sets in.

"It was you who called it in. You were the anonymous tip," Sam lets out a disbelieving huff of air, a small part of him surprised that he couldn't see his breath leaving him in a puff of fog, "You talk about him like he's untouchable. He's not Dean. He's human. He was human and you destroyed him just as you destroyed them," Sam waves his hands over the photos of Dean's victims, "You destroyed everything that he was and re-made him in your image. You killed him, Dean."

"No!" Dean's voice rings loud and clear in the room. He sets his mouth in a firm line, swallowing the lump in his throat. Softly, he continues, "No. Have you ever been so close to someone that you forgot where you ended and they began? Shared so much of each other that even breathing made you a part of them? If I re-made him, as you seem to think, it was only to make him whole. The world could go fuck itself for all we cared, because I mattered and he mattered.

"You look at me. And I can see you trying to get a bead on what I am. But you can't. I'm beyond you. I am Death, Sam. These walls? They _are_ nothing and they _mean_ nothing."

"The spell…"Sam whispers. And it hits him with the weight of an ocean wave; everything that was happened and was happening again, "He's trying to get back to you."

Dean smirks back at him, his eyes burning slow like the tip of a cigarette. He is himself once more, in all his awful glory. Even as he gathers the photographs into a neat stack, tapping the ends to square the edges, he glows with pride. He lowers his eyes demurely as he pushes the stack back to Sam.

"Fly away, Babybro. Fly far, far away."

As he is dragged out, Dean turns his head back to look one last time at Sam,

 

**Babybro,**

**It's hard to lose someone. It's even harder when someone gets taken away, and there's nothing you can do about it.**

* * *

Sam slumps into his desk, rubbing his eyes and willing away the world for just five minutes. From across the way, he hears Ash groaning and throwing what sounds like a pencil down. Sam tilts his head back, and the light shining down from the ceiling pierces through his eyelids, painting a flat scarlet world.

"What's it look like in your part of the world, Ash?"

"Deskwork. Lots and lots of deskwork. You and Gabriel are going to do the paperwork when this is over, not me."

Sam chuckles softly to himself. They really had dumped a lot of the researching on Ash. As soon as he returned to his car parked outside of the prison, he called Ash and an APB was put out for Castiel Novak. Currently, the other detective is digging up what he can on the ex-con, sifting through the known contacts and gathering information for Gabriel to draw up a profile the next time he was in the station.

As if on cue, the light on Sam's desk phone lights up. Speak of the devil.

"Detective Wesson."

"Hey, Sam. I bet you'll never guess where I am."

"Oh no." Sam slumps in his chair, but grabs a pencil and a notepad.

"Oh yes. Our Novak's been a busy boy. Though thankfully, he was gentle this time around."

Gabriel gazes down at the body of Lenore Hector. Outside, her husband was giving Officer Tran his statement. He kneels down next to her.

"Nice lady by all accounts. Service projects, volunteer work, sandwiches for the homeless."

She looks peaceful, almost asleep. He says as much to Sam.

"She had tumors behind her eyes. She was going to go blind soon."

"Dude, I don't even wanna know how you know that."

"Sir?"

Gabriel glances up at Officer Tran, raising a questioning eyebrow at the young officer.

"The husband has something you should hear. Apparently, they recently helped someone who matches Novak's description."

"Right." He tells Sam he'd get back to the station soon and ends the call.

 

_Dearheart,_

_It's hard to comfort the dying. It's so hard. I feel so useless._

* * *

_Five years ago_

He opened the door, locking it behind him and dropping the keys on the end table.

"Dean? Is that you?" a weak voice called from the master bedroom.

"Yeah, it's me." He made his way up the stairs, padding softly through the hall before finally coming to a stop before the door. He took a deep breath, and opened the door inside.

Death filled the space; stared out from the corners; crept in the shadows. Particles of it floated in every breath of air. Dean walked into the room and Death parted for him, allowing him through. He knelt down by her bedside, waiting for her to open her tired, pain-filled eyes.

When she did, she took in the sight of him, crusted in blood, with a steady gaze. Slowly, she lifted her hand from the covers and raised it to cup his face. She stroked a gentle thumb across his cheek bone, and Dean closed his eyes, savoring the contact.

"You took me into your house," he murmured, "You gave me a place to rest. You fed me. You showed me love, even though you didn't have to." He opened his eyes to see her smiling. He held her hand to his cheek and kissed the palm.

"Can you make it stop hurting?"

He sniffled and kissed her hand once more.

"Sure. It's the least I can do."

Dean stood up and rustled around in his jacket pockets until found and he pulled a large syringe. He removed it from its package, placed the needle inside, and pulled back the plunger until it was filled with air. He sat down on the side of the bed and gently pushed the hair out of her face with his free hand.

"Now you're going to feel a little pressure." He joked. She smiled in return, leaning into his touch. As gently as he could, he inserted the needle into her carotid artery. He placed the syringe on the bed covers and cupped her face between her hands. Dean kissed her forehead and watched silently, waiting for the embolism to do its work.

"Goodnight, Layla."

When she drew her last breath, and her heart gave its final beat, Dean lifted her from the covers and carried her into the bathroom. He stripped the sheets, changing them out for newer, cleaner ones, and dumped the soiled sheets in the laundry basket. He washed her body carefully, removing any trace of sickness. He dressed her in a clean nightgown, arranged her carefully on the bed, and before he turned off all the lights, he left a note on the end table by the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, I had the "I am Death" line written before Desolation of Smaug.


	6. Chapter 6

VI

_Do you remember, little bird_

_When we could simply be?_

_I need you here, dear little bird._

_I need you here with me._

* * *

If he thought about it, there were only three people in this world he'd ever really loved.

He loved his father like he loved the ocean; unfathomable and vast and deep, personally serving him no good, but comforting all the same. The man walked out of his life when he was a small child, and to be honest, he hadn't really thought about him in a long time. There were brief moments where he wondered where the man was and if he was happy, but they passed as quickly as ripples meeting the shore.

His love for his mother was something different. It was stronger; a bond built in tangling small fingers around long red locks of hair and finger painting while she created her charcoal masterpieces. She would look at him with large sad eyes and ask him if he loved her. And always, he answered yes. She was his mother. Of course he loved her. He loved her on the days when she smiled and smothered him in kisses. He loved her on the days when she raged at him and called him a liar. He loved her on her quiet days, when she would sit by the window and gaze at nothing. He loved her when she slept through the day, leaving him to fend for himself in the large empty house, battling against the monsters in the shadows and dust.

He still loves her, but he can't quite find it in himself to forgive her.

It was on a day that started happy and ended quiet. They had gone to the park, and she sketched him as he pursued the bees. She taught him to weave flower chains, made him a crown, and bought ice cream for them both while the sun was still high in the sky. And when they got home, she curled around him on the couch and told him story after story about angels and demons and hunters and heroes. And when it came time for bed, instead of tucking him into his own small cot, she let him lay next to her; something she hadn't allowed since he was much younger. He fell asleep in her arms, listening to the comforting beat of her heart, feeling the puffs of air as she exhaled into his dark hair.

When he woke, it was to the light streaming in from the window and he found himself in heavy, cold, pale arms. She was not breathing. After all, she had taken a bottle's worth of sleeping pills; slipped quietly into a coma and then let life trickle away. He sat up in the bed, inexplicably frozen in place, staring at his mother's body with eyes that saw and did not see.

And lo! A seed, small and bitter, was planted in the boy's belly. And it grew in tendrils and wound about itself until it was a full-fledged, choking, seething, rage.

After that point, nothing felt real. He was Alice through the looking glass and wandering through Wonderland. His body ceased to be his because he was no longer home. Earth was a planet in space that revolved around the sun, and Castiel was far, far away.

Life was easier because everything ceased to matter. Rules ceased to exist (did they ever?) and laws were meant to be broken. He drew a circle around himself and shut the world out. Any who dared to cross the line risked letting loose a storm of rage and broken mugs or the stubborn refusal to acknowledge anything. He bounced from house to house (he had no home, and thus, would recognize no home). For a brief, shining moment, a flicker of hope broke through the clouds when, in desperation, one foster parent handed him a Bible and told him it held the answer to every unspoken question in his heart. He carried it with him wherever he went and like a little monk, he pored over the text; absorbing each and every line into his skin until the words carved themselves into his very bones. And when he reached the end, the good book dropped from his slack fingers, and he screamed and roared inconsolably, deaf to the sounds of his current caretaker, a whirling storm of untamed emotions until the nurses at the hospital shot his gangly form full of tranquilizers. When he woke, it was to the sight of his foster brother at side, blue eyes gleaming with a near-silver light. He scooted his chair closer to Castiel's bedside, leaning in close enough for his golden hair to be haloed in the light. Gently, he tapped the tip of Castiel's nose, and murmured,

"I'm sorry you couldn't find what you were looking for. But I'll tell you a secret," Balthazar dropped his voice into a hushed whisper, "It's out there, Cassie. And when you find it, no one will be able to keep you from it."

Balthazar would always use "fun" as the selling point to get Castiel to do things for him. In actuality, Castiel was just trying to find something to pierce and burn the all-encompassing numbness that defined his being; anything; anything besides the void that resided in his center; something to bridge the chasm that divided him from the rest of the world and open the floodgates to something like feeling alive. He wanted something permanent and real, but still he could not find it.

His talent for forgery was remarkable. He was a guide who frequently found his way around a jungle of details. His mastery was something to be seen. Clients would heap praise upon the reclusive man, calling him an artist. Getting caught was inevitable. Balthazar, slippery as he was, had managed to stay free. Not so with Castiel, who holed himself up in the same place for years.

Part of him wonders if it was perhaps an angel that allowed him to be captured and sentenced. After all, it led him to Dean.

Beautiful, mighty Dean who loved him like the soothing burn of whiskey, and sparked in him a passion unlike anything; Dean, who drew back the veil between him and the world; molded and shaped him and gave him form; gave him life. Dean, who did the impossible and made him _feel_.

* * *

_He's drifting through a blue sky like a leaf in autumn._

_Down_

_down_

_down._

_And then cold, rough walls rise around him, blocking him from the soft, white clouds. He opens his mouth to scream, but the breath is snatched from his lungs, and the walls slide inward. Sam pounds his fists frantically against the walls, tearing his skin and staining the grey red with blood. He is trapped, and the walls are his coffin. And like the trapdoor of a gallows, the floor drops from beneath him, sending him into ink black water with a roaring splash that floods his ears and nose and mouth._

_The piercing sound of some high frequency pierces cuts through, parting the waters like Moses and the Red Sea. Tentatively, Sam follows the path it clears and walks out onto a field of white clouds. Sam's feet know the way, even if he does not. He comes to a stop before a whirling vortex. The wind whips the hair into and away from his face. It is the eye of the storm, and Sam spreads his arms, closes his eyes, and falls._

_"And the Lord God, with loving hands sculpted man from the clay of earth, and with a kiss breathed into him the breath of life; and man became a shining soul."_

_"I'm pretty sure that's not what it actually says, Cas."_

_Sam opens his eyes, and he sees two men, resting on a prison cot. Their jumpsuits are proof enough that they are prisoners, but they are relaxed and at ease. This is their world and outside does not exist. Dean is stretched out on his back., hands behind his head. His body is like a still surface of water, anticipating the ripple of touch. His focus is on the other man sitting cross legged next to him, eyes closed. Castiel cracks open one blue eye and grins. He uncrosses his legs, and leans over Dean._

_"Oh ye of little faith. That may not be what was written, but that's what happened."_

_"How do you know that?"_

_"Because that's what you did."_

_He plants a kiss on Dean's lips, and Dean takes over, turning it into a hungry and wild thing. He pulls Castiel down and closer, pressing a hand against the back of Castiel's neck. Dean breaks away with a nip to Castiel's lower lip._

_"Am I your god, Cas?"_

_"I recognize no other."_

_Dean hums with pleasure. Castiel lies down beside him, his head over Dean's heart and his hand stroking the v-neck of Dean's prison scrubs. Dean raises one hand and rests it above Castiel's, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. Castiel's brows furrow and he presses himself closer to the other man._

_"I don't want you to go." He whispers. Dean runs a thumb over the back of Castiel's hand._

_"It's only temporary," Dean murmurs, "It can't hurt me."_

_"But how do you know it worked? It was supposed to bring Sam to you."_

_"Don't worry, Cas." He wraps his arm around the other man, holding him close, "He'll come. Maybe not tomorrow, or the day after that, or even in a year, but I'll see my Babybro," he strokes his fingers through dark brown locks and opens his eyes, staring directly at Sam. His green eyes shine merrily as his face breaks into a wide grin. He tilts his head, touching his cheek to Castiel's hair, not once breaking eye contact with the specter of Sam._

_"It'll happen."_

_Sam's head fills with fire and his eyes drown in white light as a warm voice echoes through the room._

**_"Babybro,_ **

**_There are beautiful things out there. Precious people. Don't let them slip away. Fight as hard as you can to keep them. Fight for them."_ **

He wakes up screaming.

* * *

"It's all coming down. The world is ending."

Balthazar sighs dramatically and pours more wine into his glass. He raises it, toasting the man across from him. Distractedly, Castiel raises his glass in answer and sips, gazing out the window. It was as if all the waters of the world decided to fall from the sky. Rain hammered down on the roof, as if desperate to make its way inside. It was the drumbeat of collapse.

Balthazar had lived well while Castiel was in prison, and Castiel never held it against him. But Balthazar's life has now turned on him, and now there's nothing left to do but drink up the rest of his fine liquor and watch it all fall apart.

"I can't believe," he continues, "That they managed to play me. Hook. Line. And sinker." He peers into the wine bottle and throws it away in disgust, "I taught them too well."

"You are the best."

"Was the best, Cassie. Keyword 'was.'"

He grasps a bottle of expensive whiskey and chuckles. His former associates had turned on him, pinning him for embezzlement and murder. Before long, the authorities would be swarming his lovely home like a plague of locusts, disturbing his lovely paintings and likely ruining his sound system. He raises the bottle of whiskey,

"To the lovely misses Atropos and Talbot, may they one day feel what it is like to be stabbed in the back as I've have been."

He takes a deep swig, savoring the burn. He slumps in his chair, reveling in the burn as the whiskey went down. Oh, that's good stuff.

"And it came to pass that the brother of the heart must too shed his blood, for he and those like him are as constant as the moon. Though they change in shape and form, they are as stars of heaven fallen unto earth. They are the sixth rite, for Death must walk hand in hand with loss in all things."

Balthazar squints his eyes in confusion then shakes his head. He passes the bottle over in the general direction of where Castiel is sitting.

"Still babbling scripture, Cassie?"

"No. But I _am_ sorry, brother. Forgive me."

* * *

He arranges Balthazar's arms across his chest, like the pharaohs of old. Castiel kneels before him, whispering prayers to his lingering soul. He gives the husk of Balthazar one last kiss on the forehead, before leaning back on his heels to take in the beautiful sight. Like smoke, the shining white of Balthazar's soul rises from his parted lips. In one breathtaking flash it explodes, bursting through the windows, and whirls out into the night sky. Castiel smiles softly as it goes; then gets to work carving wings into the wood floor.

_Dearheart,_

_The people we love never leave us because we hold a piece of them deep within our hearts. No one can take that away._

* * *

"He's mocking us. He's gotta be mocking us." Gabriel rubs tiredly at his eyes. If forensic wasn't currently going over the crime scene, he would have probably destroyed the wings on the floor. Set them on fire, smash them with a hammer, that sort of thing.

"Gabriel, we need to talk."

Gabriel groans, but takes in how tired the Wesson looks. He probably was running on as little sleep as physically possible. Just like everyone else on this case. Gabriel crosses his arms and leans in closer. Sam rolls his eyes and awkwardly tilts until his mouth is close to Gabriel's ear.

"In private."

Gabriel throws his hands up in the air in exasperation and walks out of the Roche house and out onto the lawn. He stops in front of a willow tree in a remote part of the property and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

"Happy? Now spit it out. What's eating you so bad that it's for my ears only?"

"Dean Smith is my older brother. I was born Sam Winchester, but my parents changed my name when they adopted me. I only found out the truth after Smith was captured."

Sam attempts to kick at a pebble, but only ends up scuffing fresh mud onto his shoe. He looks over at Gabriel, tentatively, unsure of what to expect. The other man has a flat look on his face and is holding a lollipop out to Sam. Sam's nose wrinkles in confusion.

"A Dum Dum for a dumb-dumb."

"What?"

"Really, Sam? Now is the time you decide to tell me?" Gabriel turns away, shoulders slumping, gazing up into the heavens as if to ask 'why me?' Finally, he turns back to Sam, "I already know."

"What?"

"Sam you're too honest for your own good. My God, the professionalism in this department. I don't know if this is better or worse than finding out that Ash and Jo Harvelle used to date."

"What?!"

"You mean he didn't tell you?! Sam, why do you think he's been okay with us making him play desk jockey?" Sam opens his mouth to ask Gabriel for more information, but Gabriel raises a hand to stop him, "Anyway, I already know because Lucifer and I dug it up way back when we were originally hunting Smith."

"Then why…"

Gabriel shrugged.

"Luci pushed for it. He and I both knew you didn't have anything to do with it. You had so much potential back then and he didn't want to ruin your life. That, and he thought you were a good kid," he shakes his head, "You still are a good kid." He tugs one of the willow branches, shaking rainwater from the leaves.

"We buried the evidence and covered our tracks. We thought that you'd never find out. But I guess we forgot to factor you in." he winks reassuringly, but there is no humor in his eyes.

A cold wind whips by, and they shiver in their jackets.

* * *

_Five Years Ago_

Dean scrambled desperately, trying to maintain pressure on the stomach wound of Jo Harvelle.

"Dean." She huffed. Dean shushed her, wild panic coursing through his veins as he realized he was practically keeping her guts in her body.

"You're gonna be alright Jo. You're gonna be fine."

One last con, she had said. One last time between old friends.

Jo was the last remnant of his nearly non-existent childhood. Her blonde hair was messily tied back when she offered him his first cigarette. They were both twelve and he never forgot the words she said to him as he took his first puff.

_We have the same eyes_.

They never could belong in the crisp, clean world of the normal folk; people who didn't lose their mamas and their daddies in car wrecks or house fires; people who hadn't seen the things they'd seen; people who could never survive the life they led. But with Jo by his side, it never mattered.  With each other, they were never truly alone.

And as her life seeped from between his fingers, it did matter. He should never have let her pull this one last job-

_"-before I get hitched to my lover-boy."_

_"He's cool with what you do?"_

_"Dean, he doesn't know what I do, and he's not gonna know what I do. He thinks I just make my living bartending and after this job it can stay that way."_

_"I don't know, Jo."_

"Don't you die on me, Joanna Beth. Don't you go."

With what little strength she had left, she lifted a blood stained hand to rest on top of Dean's. Her engagement ring was stained with blood.

"'S okay, Dean. It's okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based Castiel's problems on what I'd read about Depersonalization Disorder. Not sure how well it came across, but I tried.
> 
> Also, I don't know how widespread Dum Dums are, but they're a brand of small lollipops that come in many varieties of flavors. They were a big part of my childhood. There's also one currently sitting on my desk.


End file.
